


Nekros

by deuxexmycroft



Series: The Loss of Flesh and Soul [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:03:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to the Loss of Flesh and Soul.<br/>Instead of returning to Moriarty, Moran escapes to Europe. He takes John with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nekros

The train rushed through the stormy night, screeching around corners, occasionally rattling over a short stretch of wet track. Moran kept his ears open, but background conversation was minimal. Most on the train just wanted to sleep, lulled by the white noise of the rain, the sound of metal on metal.

John sat next to him, his tense body cinched close by Moran's arm around his waist. He didn't look at Moran, preferring instead to stare out the window, watching the rain hit glass and be swept away by the wind. He'd barely spoken a word since Moran had rescued him from the back of the van, though they'd been travelling together for hours. His silence was to be expected, indeed, it was admirable how well John was holding up. He was on his last legs, hunted from all sides, forced by circumstance to flee the country with a man he'd seen kill.

Rightly or wrongly, he clearly considered Moran the lesser of the evils that plagued him.

Looking down at the blond head nodding with the movements of the train, feeling the shape and warmth of his body through his soft civilian clothes, Moran felt a swelling of protectiveness towards his companion. It was the same feeling that inspired him to finally leave Moriarty and strike out on his own. He'd had enough of being owned, being told what he could and couldn't have. He wanted John, so he took him. By absconding, Moran had placed a time limit on his own life. But he didn't regret his decision.

He had very little left to live for anyway.

He wondered what would happen to Moriarty. Sherlock would probably find him, while looking for John. Even if, for a while, Moriarty could persuade Sherlock to side with him, they were both predators. It was inevitable that one would kill the other. Then the survivor would track them down - Moriarty, for revenge at Moran's betrayal. Sherlock, to retrieve what he considered his property.

Moran squeezed his arm gently around John's waist. "You alright?"

"Fine," said John quietly, a terrible lie. He looked far from fine, eyes tired, expression haunted. In other circumstances he'd be snoozing on the train like the rest of the passengers, but he was keeping his guard up, still nervous around Moran. An understandable response, but not what Moran wanted. He needed John to understand that he meant him no harm.

 

* * *

 

Moran took John to a motel in Paris, a cheap place run by Eugene, an old contact of his. He had plenty of cash in his bag, enough for a long term stay at any five star hotel, but he knew how fast money could run out.

Pushing open the flimsy door set off an electronic buzzer. The place smelt old, feels cheap, lit by the yellow glow of overhead lighting. John followed, letting the door shut quietly behind him, and he stood slightly damp from the rain, rubbing at his arms to warm himself up. Crouched in the tiny train bathroom together, they'd scrubbed the most of the blood out, but there was still a trace of rustiness over his cardigan. Not noticeable as blood, though.

Moran rung the bell at reception, and an overweight man with floppy brown hair came stumbling out from a door labelled 'Office'. His sour expression vanished as he caught sight of Moran. "Colonel!" he called out fondly. "How've you been?"

"Just taking a little holiday," said Moran.

"Always on holiday," said Eugene, with a wry grin. "I want your job, this place runs me ragged."

Moran cast a glance over the peeling wallpaper, the dust coating the surfaces, and said nothing.

The manager's eyes flicked behind Moran's shoulder, and narrowed. He nodded his head. "Who's the little guy?"

"He's no-one," said Moran, monotone.

"I don't know," replied Eugene, in a suspicious voice. "He looks reaaaal fucking familiar."

Moran's voice dipped warningly. "You didn't see him."

Eugene raised his hands. "Hey," he said defensively. "I rent out one room, to one guy I know. That's all. Maybe he brings a friend. Or an aging rent boy. Who cares?" He shrugged. "I don't care."

Moran slammed his fists onto the counter with a loud bang, making the bell jingle. He smiled coldly at Eugene. "What did you say?"

"Hey, Colonel, I was just kidding." Eugene's forehead started to sweat. He hastily eyes Moran's fists. "Knock it off…"

"Maybe I don't have a sense of humour."

"Alright, alright!" Eugene let out a low whistle. "I get you. Don't punch furniture and stare at me with those dead eyes of yours. Gives me fucking nightmares."

Moran tossed the correct amount of cash onto the table, and Eugene handed him the keys, muttering under his breath.

Their room opened with a creak, the inside pitch black. Moran paced in first, dumping his bag on a spindly table and flicking on the bedside lamps to illuminate the drab little room. The curtains were open, facing the road. Moran took a quick look at the view outside before sweeping the curtains shut.

"Let's get it over with, then."

John's voice was paper thin. Moran turned to look, he was standing near the door looking very small, yet rigidly composed. He met Moran's eyes and gestured at the bed.

"That's what you want, right?" he rasped. "That's why you took me with you."

Moran didn’t deny it. "I've been wanting to leave for a while," he admitted. "And you didn't want me to hand you over to the spider. Or Holmes."

John's body strained to maintain posture. To the untrained eye, he looked straight-backed and alert. Only Moran could see how much of a façade that was. Underneath his shell, John was cracking badly.  "And this is what you want in return, right?"

"This?" asked Moran, turning to face him fully. He didn't elaborate. He wanted to hear John say it.

John swallowed nervously in the silence, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His dark gaze was strong. "Me."

That simple word held a lot of possibilities. There were many ways to have a man. Moran ran his eyes slowly over John's figure, imagining the skin underneath, what he'd look like spread out on the bed beside him. His gaze made John's breath quicken. "Well, yes," Moran said, with quiet longing.

"Alright then." John seemed shell-shocked. Without Moran having to say anything else, he started to undress. His fingers tumbled over the buttons of his cardigan, eyes distant as he retreated into himself.

"Have you done this before?" Moran asked, leisurely circling John as he clumsily tugged the cardigan over his arms and started on his shirt.

John sucked in a shuddering breath, and shook his head.

Fucking him now would be like fucking a reluctant doll. John had been ripped from home, threatened by death, and he had no-one looking out for him but a man who'd held a gun to his head and been willing to use it. He was desperate. He'd give Moran his body, as part of a transaction in exchange for protection, but nothing else.

And that wasn't what Moran wanted.

It wasn't enough to have a man's flesh. To possess him, to have him wanting you, despite himself - that was the greater prize, and it certainly wasn't going to happen straight away. Moran couldn't, wouldn't, rush it.  And if there was one quality Moran possessed, it was patience. No doubt borne from his career of waiting for hours with a good line of sight, anticipating his target's approach.

Moran never missed.

He walked over to John, and put his hands over John's smaller ones. They shook from adrenaline and fear, hovering over the buttons of his shirt. "You can't do this right now," Moran said calmly.

John stared up at him with shocked eyes.

"Look at you." Moran smoothed his hands down John's sloping shoulders. "You're wrung dry. I'm surprised you haven't passed out."

John shook his head. "I don't understand."

He was so exhausted.

Moran dropped his hands to the front of John's shirt, flicking open the last few buttons so it lay loose over him. It revealed his scar, ugly over his stomach. John shivered as Moran drank in the sight of him, and looked away.

"Take off your jeans and shoes," said Moran. He pulled off his own jacket, stripped down to his underwear, dropping his clothes in a neat pile.

John, as if in a trance, followed suit, baring himself for Moran's eyes.

His skin turned out to be marred by vicious marks, the scar from Sherlock's knife, the deep scratches over the back of his neck, the bruises over his body from his rough treatment during the aborted journey to Moriarty's hideout. Deeper bruises encircled his wrists like bracelets.

His eyes dipped close when Moran approached, and he flinched when Moran reached forward, brushed his hand over John's cheek. "What do you want?"

"Tonight?" Moran savoured the warmth of John's skin under his palm. "Just this."

He slid his hands down to gently encircle John's waist, ducked his head, kissed him.

John's lips were thin and soft, passively yielding, but he didn't kiss back. He didn't pull away, either, frozen in Moran's arms as his mouth was claimed. His eyes were large and liquid when Moran broke their kiss, blond lashes sweeping down.

He let himself be guided into bed. Moran pulled the covers around them and flicked off the bedside lights, shrouding them in darkness. He held John's stiff body close, smoothing over the shapes of his shoulders, his chest, slipping his hand smoothly from waist to flank. John remained silent, his breathing stilted as he let Moran touch him

When Moran pressed his lips to John's again, he could almost taste the man's reticence, could feel it in the coiled tight tension of his muscles. He kept his kisses shallow, comforting, coaxing. Eventually, John tentatively kissed back.

Moran felt hope rise as John's mouth melted against his own, hot and breathy. Eagerly, he slipped an arm around John's torso and pulled the smaller man underneath him, deepening their kiss with a low moan. He carded his fingers through John's hair, feeling the short strands slip through his fingers, then traced down his cheek, his jaw, his neck. John's hands rested against Moran's chest, a futile barrier, but he didn't push him away. They kissed for a few delightfully long minutes, until John felt Moran's arousal press against him. His body went rigid, and he broke the kiss immediately.

"I'm… tired," John said, hiding his panic as best he could.

"Alright."

In the quiet dark, Moran wrapped his arms around John and spooned him, entangling their legs. He nuzzled John's hair, pressed his lips into the back of his neck.

"We've got time," he murmured into John's ear. "You're safe with me, alright? I'm not going to rush you."

John said nothing, but he relaxed, slightly, into Moran's arms. His hands were fisted into the sheets in front of him, and although he shut his eyes and pretended to snooze, he was still awake when Moran finally drifted off.

 

* * *

 

When Moran woke up, the curtains were flung wide, shifting in the draft, and the open window streamed in light from the sun high in the sky. He heard the sound of the traffic outside, no birds. It was noon. John leant against the windowsill in his unbuttoned shirt and underwear, a gentle breeze rippling through his hair. His blood-stained cardigan and muddy jeans lay crumpled on the floor.

"Good morning," muttered Moran lowly, rolling onto his back. The mattress squeaked under his weight.

John didn't look at him. "Morning." He was squinting through the sunlight into the city. The sun hit his shirt at just the right angle, so that Moran could see the outline of his torso through the thin material.

"Not going to get dressed?"

John's mouth turned down. "I need some new clothes. I'm not putting on…" he jerked his head towards his old, blood-stained clothes, "that…"

"Right." Moran itched his fingers through his hair. "I'll get you some."

He stretched out with a yawn, flexing his arms over his head. His muscles felt pleasantly sore from last nights work. He's find a pharmacy, get some essentials. He'd go to a thrift store and pick out some clothes for the both of them. He could buy new, but the only thing more conspicuous than wearing their current clothes would be wearing the new season head to toe.

Plan for the day sorted, he pulled himself out of bed and tugged on his old clothes. Unlike John, Moran had no scruples about wearing bloodstains.

"Don't go anywhere while I'm gone," he said, stuffing his feet into his combat boots. "It's not safe out there."

"Where would I go?" John replied quietly.

He left John staring wistfully out the window, and quickly made his rounds about town. In his passable French, he bought supplies and picked up some clothes, making guesses at John's size. Although Moran's height and build could make it easy for him to stand out, he had perfected a casual aura that enabled him to pass mostly unnoticed. He was unfailingly polite, but distant, to the people he talked to. It was safer that way.

After picking up lunch, he headed back to the motel. He nodded to Eugene, lazily guarding reception, and sauntered back to his room. Inside, he heard the muted sound of water running. John was in the shower.

Moran put down his bags and locked the door behind him, kicking off his shoes and swinging off his jacket. John made no sound to indicate that he'd heard Moran's entry.

He wondered what John looked like in the shower, water streaming down pinkened, vulnerable skin.

After a brief moment of consideration, Moran stripped down and silently opened the bathroom door. He felt the humidity hit him, steam fogging up the air and mirror. John was letting the water run over him, head bowed, eyes shut. He even didn't notice Moran come in

When Moran stepped in behind him, John spun around with a yelp of shock. "Jesus!" he cried out, looking up at Moran with real fear in his eyes.

"Hey, shhhh," murmured Moran, cupping John's cheek the way he had the night before. John cringed away. "It's just me," Moran reassured him. "I bought you some things."

He quickly glanced over John, noticing his scrubbed raw skin. John hadn't been particularly dirty, but perhaps the grime was psychological.

"John," Moran repeated.

John made a distressed noise and backed up against the wall of the shower, eyes pointing anywhere but Moran.

Moran felt like he'd cornered some sort of wild creature. He reached forward again, smoothing a hand down John's torso. At his touch, John snapped back to the way he'd been in the safe house with a gun to his head - tense, but compliant. It wasn't a state of mind Moran wanted him falling back into.

He pulled John forward, tipped John's head towards his chest, water spattering down their backs. "It's alright, John. It's okay." He rubbed large soothing circles just under the nape of John's neck, a pressure point.

John shuddered into him, silently.  He was so, so broken.

Caught be desire, Moran took John's chin and tilted his head up, angling their bodies to protect him from the spray. He kissed John's upper lip, carefully, and then after a few shallow kisses, dipped his tongue into John's mouth. John responded minimally, but with Moran so close, stroking him soothingly, he began to react. His tongue went liquid against Moran's, and he sank into the deepening kiss.

Skin slick and slippery, John's figure felt incredible against him. His hands dropped from John's shoulders to feel the curve of his spine, where it arched at the small of his back. John's hands rested very lightly on Moran's waist. When he pushed Moran to move away, Moran broke their kiss.

"You're still not ready." Moran skimmed a hand over John's upper arm, as John shook and blinked away the water running into his eyes.

"I'm not," John said hurriedly, shaking his head. He was starting to panic again.

"That's alright." Moran ducked down and kissed John's forehead, reaching behind him to shut off the water.

 

* * *

 

They travelled often as Moran's savings dwindled.

On an overnight train to their next hiding spot, Moran found out about Jim Moriarty's death in the paper. The headline news was, predictably, that Sherlock had escaped justice. He was nowhere to be found, although there was speculation that he had skipped country.

In the interview with the detectives of the case, there was a portrait of John captioned: 'John Watson, still missing'. The portrait was in black and white, a few years old, but still recognisable. Moran looked across from the paper to John, who was staring out the window. He hadn't aged much. Perhaps a few more fine lines, and he'd lost some of the softness of his face. It was still a nice face. Moran liked looking at John.

He pushed the paper over the table to John, who blinked at it, then stared, rapt, at the pictures. DCI Gregson was standing at the foot of the police station steps, in the middle of his speech promising to recapture Sherlock. DI Lestrade stood next to him, hollow eyed and defeated, alongside an unlabelled woman with curly hair. John picked up the paper with tremulous hands. He hadn't read the news at all, as far as Moran knew, since their escape. He stared at the photographs for a very long time.

"These were the people you worked with before," observed Moran.

John licked his lips, a nervous tic Moran had begun to pick up on. "Yes," he said shortly. "As a detective, and then," he swallowed painfully, "on the copycat case."

Moran tilted his head at John's emotional reaction. "Do you miss them?"

John didn't reply straight away. He had to think about it, brow creasing. "No, I just --" he sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "It all seems like such a long time ago."

 

* * *

 

Weeks went past, longer than Moran thought they would have. John was a never-ending mystery to him, so used to being used that he was terribly slow to open up about anything personal. He never said much in public, but he would let Moran wind an arm around his waist while they were walking, and he would sit quietly whenever Moran was dropping in on a contact to get new information.

In the bedroom they had yet to progress past kissing, but slowly, John's reluctance started to fade. He no longer froze up in Moran's arms, or panicked when Moran embraced him from behind. His kisses were wonderful, gentle but deep, almost questioning in their hesitance. Moran was no stranger to sexual intimacy, but there was something uniquely pleasing about having an armful of John pressed up against his chest, kissing him, feeling the tension in him slowly start to relax.

Finally, at a tiny hotel in Prague, John let Moran touch him further.

By the dim glow of the beside lamps, he eased a naked and semi-aroused John into the creaky bed. He trailed kisses down John's lips to his jawline, his neck, settling his body between John's thighs. John immediately started panicking, his legs tensing at Moran's sides. "Wait…"

"It's okay," Moran said, propping himself up on an elbow so he wouldn't crush John, his free hand sliding up the taut muscle of John's thigh. John flinched away, gasping as Moran's hand gripped over his arse. "Shhh, it's alright."

It started slow, idly massaging John's cock to hardness, feeling it lengthen and heat in his hand as they kissed. John was satisfyingly responsive, his breaths between kisses coming in pants, skin flushing, eyelids dipping heavily. He gripped Moran's shoulders tightly as he neared orgasm, body glistening with sweat, cock twitching in Moran's tightly thrusting grip. "Fuck," he groaned breathily, lost in sensation as he twisted he face towards the pillow.

His muscles were quivering, his cock burning up in Moran's palm and swelling slightly as he neared orgasm.

"Oh god," he moaned, clutching harder at Moran's shoulders, fingers digging into muscle. "Oh god--!"

He came hard, shaking like a leaf, coating Moran's fingers as he stroked John through his orgasm. All tension immediately left John's body, leaving him pliant and shivery against Moran's chest, so oversensitive to touch that he keened as if in pain when Moran pulled him close after cleaning off his hands. His face was flushed red, and he looked absolutely mortified.

Moran switched off the lights.

When Moran's aching erection bumped at his thigh, John wriggled away. "No, no I'm not…"

"It's okay," Moran assured him, even though he felt sick with desire. Now was not the time. He gathered John close again, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It's fine, I can wait."

John's arms were gathered up like a barrier between them. After the vulnerability of his orgasm, the defences were back up. He lay still in Moran's arms, determinedly awake as Moran slipped off.

 

* * *

 

This time, when he woke up, John hadn't moved away. He looked calmer in repose, his head resting on Moran's chest, arm curled up under his chin. The innocent sight inspired a rare fondness in Moran. He reached down and gently brushed the hair from John's forehead.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, Moran took John out for coffee at Jorji's café. The man himself, with a few extra pounds and greying hair, was sitting out in the afternoon sun and reading the paper, chewing on a toothpick. He startled when he saw Moran, then grinned widely and sprung to his feet.

" _Colonel!_ " he called out in Czech, arms spread wide amiably. " _Long time no see, old friend._ "

The two embraced. Since retiring from any sort of active work, Jorji felt a lot softer around the middle. But he was still disarmingly strong, and the wicked smile hasn't lost its sharpness. Moran remembered that smile, perhaps crueller, plastered over Jorji's face as he checked out new merchandise. Moran killed people, Jorji was heavily involved in human trafficking. Each despised the other's line of work. " _Your place isn't as busy as it used to be_ ," Moran remarked, gesturing at the empty tables.

Jorji shrugged, tongue pushing the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. " _What place is?_ " he replied. He clapped his hands over Moran's shoulders. " _I worry about you. The ground has been shrinking under your feet_."

"In English, please." Moran said, glancing over his shoulder to where John was awkwardly waiting. "For my friend."

"Your friend?" Jorji glanced over at John, interest gleaming in his eyes. "Colonel, it's not very like you to have a friend."

"Hello," said John, walking a little closer with a tense smile.

Jorji raised his eyebrows. " _Just a friend?_ " he asked Moran.

" _Just a friend_ ," Moran lied.

Jorji laughed and waggled his forefinger. " _Don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, Colonel. I know your type, remember? Eh?_ " His voice went teasing. " _Little blonds with big sad eyes…_ "

" _Disrespect him_ ," said Moran calmly, " _and you disrespect me._ "

John stared between them, uncomprehending.

"Fine!" Jorji held his hands up. "Let's speak inside, okay? You never know who's listening these days."

They picked out a table and Jorji flipped the sign on the door. Over coffee, they swapped information on the rapidly changing politics of the criminal underground. John listened, rapt. As a former detective, perhaps their conversation was lending new insight into previously unsolvable cases.

Jim Moriarty had always been too paranoid to have a proper second in command. The closest he'd had was Moran, and even then he still left Moran in the dark about many of his objectives. With Moriarty dead, there was no leader to replace him, and the organisation was falling apart. Moran had noticed. News travelled quickly, and everyone wanted to be on the winning side. He'd become wary of which contacts he could trust, which cities and towns he could safely stay in. More than once, he'd been certain that they were being spied on.

"You left Moriarty's organisation at just the right time," remarked Jorji.

Moran shrugged easily. "Blind luck."

"Left your colleagues dead."

Moran's face was an impenetrable mask. "They wouldn't let me leave."

Jorji drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He shook his head, and grinned. "Most people wouldn't believe you, kid, but I do."

Moran bristled the way he always did when Jorji called him a kid. It didn't even make sense anymore, he was older than Jorji was when they'd first met, nearing retirement age for people in his line of work. John noticed his irritation, and a smile teased at the corner of his lips.

Pleased with himself for extracting a reaction, Jorji leant back with a creak of his wooden chair. "You know," he remarked. "I was really hoping Jim'd do it. Beat the Iceman at his own game."

"The Iceman?" asked John, looking between them both.

"Ambrose Fell. Small time publisher, big time crook," Moran explained. "Now that the spider is dead, the Iceman is the only player left who has global reach."

"He's snapping up the remnants of the spider's organisation like a shark," Jorji warned. "Soon he'll have his fingers in everything again, and then where will the last few years have gotten us? Back to where we started." His expression darkened, and he took a quick sip of coffee. "Worse, now that the little brother is out and about."

Moran was surprised. "He's working for the Iceman?"

Jorji shrugged. "Apparently," he said noncommittally. "But who knows, eh? Word on the street is, he's looking for someone." Jorji's dark eyes flicked over to John, who shrunk in his seat. "Someone a lot like your friend here."

"Seb…" said John warily, eyes fixed on Jorji.

Moran had to be careful here. "It's alright," he said reassuringly, but his insides had turned to ice. "Jorji, we go way back --"

"Your secret is safe from me," Jorji replied instantly, slapping his hand to his chest. "But who can say about others?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Moran could see John staring at him, questioning.

Jorji chewed at his toothpick. "You want my advice? Skip town again. Keep moving. This bastard is nothing if not persistent."

He was right. In Moran's experience, there was only one way to stop someone like that. In a conflict with a man like Sherlock Holmes, only one person gets to leave alive.

Jorji's attention shifted to John, and he peered at him with the same assessing eye he used when calculating the value of a given person's life. "You've got the Colonel here in a right tizzy, you know."

Moran rolled his eyes, affecting indifference. John didn't say anything, but he looked a little shocked.

"Yeah, look at you." Jorji grinned at Moran. "Pretending you don't care. Don't you remember that I can see right through you?"

"Or you're going senile in old age."

Jorji coughed around his toothpick. He quickly recovered. "No-one would believe me, you know. Mr Cold-and-Aloof himself is made of flesh and blood, like the rest of us."

Moran scoffed. "You should probably stop before you embarrass yourself, Jorji."

Jorji's eyes slid back over to John. "Got quite a bit of competition for his affections though, eh," he murmured, contemplative as he scanned John's appearance. "What's so special about _you?_ "

"I've no idea," replied John politely, but Moran could see his tension. He didn't like Jorji.

 

* * *

 

They left Prague in a hurry, moved to another, less crowded, town. Another place, another night to share a bed with John Watson.

His John.

Moran wasn't the type to give into extreme emotions, but he felt an illogical anger towards Sherlock Holmes. Didn't the bastard know when to stop? John didn't want him, in fact John had given up everything in order to avoid him. He'd chosen Moran over Holmes, and that should be enough.

He found himself caught up in a heady rush of possessiveness he hadn't experienced in years.

The setting sun cast their room in golden light. John was making tea at the little table in the corner, his small figure draped in a cheap dressing gown. He was fresh out of the shower, bare feet on the carpet. Moran watched his neat movements, entranced by the healing scratches over the nape of his neck.

He wished he were more like Jim, sometimes. Jim had always found it funny how emotionally detached Moran was about everything, how it blinded him to obvious clues. Now, Moran watched John and wished he could see what John was thinking, just by looking at him. The way he stirred the tea, the way his toes curled into the carpet as he shifted his weight. Was he thinking about Sherlock? Was he scared of the threat, or did he want to be found?

Moran put his laptop away and silently got to his feet.

John was pouring milk into the tea when Moran snuck up behind him and placed a hand over each side of John's waist and marvelled at how much skin his hands could cover. He went very still when Moran pressed his nose into the crown of John's slightly damp hair, and inhaled.

"I hope you're ready," Moran whispered, voice hoarse.

John, calmly, put down the milk.

Eager to touch bare skin, Moran reached around and tugged at the knot on John's dressing gown. It unravelled easily in his hands. John sucked in a breath as Moran flipped him so they were face to face, pulse fluttering in his throat as Moran crowded him against the little table and pulled the dressing gown open, exposing him. He'd gotten leaner, his bruises had faded. His chest rose and fell rapidly with each shaky breath.

Prominent, as always, was the gruesome scar, Holmes's permanent mark on him. Haunting a man's mind was one way to possess him. But his willing body, his desire, that wasn't just for anyone.

John watched Moran with wide eyes, face already flushed red, his neck and chest starting to pinken under Moran's avid gaze. His fists clenched on the table top, muscles tense, but he loosened when Moran pulled him close and smudged kisses up his neck, greedily claiming the mouth that no other man had claimed.

He gathered John into his arms and easily lifted him. Their chests pressed together, and John's hands rested on his shoulders for stability. They kissed deeply, slowly, as Moran walked them to the bed, before he dropped John to the mattress.

John hit the bed, his dressing gown falling open around him like an unwrapped present. He squirmed back, but Moran gripped him by the hips and pulled him back down. He stroked a hand down John's chest, feeling John's sharp inhales, his rabbit pulse. He was safe and alive because of Moran. Maybe Holmes would catch up to them. Maybe he'd kill Moran, and take John with him. But he wouldn't be able to take away the fact that Moran had held John first, kissed him first. Fucked him first.

And that he'd wanted it.

Moran leant back and tugged his shirt over his head, watching John's pupils dilate with arousal at the sight of him, hands reaching up to touch. He leant over John, first propping himself up on his elbows and then slowly lowering his full weight until the length of John's body was pinned beneath him. John's mouth was gaping. He was so warm, so defenceless.  Moran ground his clothed erection against John, and John moaned through clenched teeth when he felt the heavy swell press against him.

His lips were too tempting to ignore, and Moran sucked John's mouth with a rapacious groan. John kissed back, keeping up as best he could, unusually eager to please. Perhaps he thought it would make Moran go easier on him. The dressing gown was covering too much of his skin. Moran roughly tugged the material down John's shoulders, eliciting a harsh gasp, and threw it from the bed.

His trousers quickly grew too restricting. Pulling away, Moran efficiently stripped off the rest of his clothing, his erection bobbing free. John's eyes gravitated towards it, bug-eyed.

Moran was a large man, in every sense of the word.

Back on the bed, and he pulled John beneath him so John's thighs splayed around his midsection, and crushed him with his larger body. Skin to skin, he could feel John's every breath rush through his lungs. He'd never appreciated their size difference more. He caught John's lips in a searing kiss, and John kissed back, arching closer. Moran was pleased to see the evidence of John's arousal. John was ready and wanting, and Moran wanted to take it all.

Hungrily, he ran his hands over John's body, his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine, his arse. He kneaded the flesh, feeling where he was firm, where he was soft and lush. John whimpered into Moran's mouth as he gripped John's erection nestled in a patch of coarse hair, perhaps a little too hard. But John only swelled in Moran's hand.

After a few heady minutes of kissing and caressing John's body, feeling the solid length of John's erection, Moran pulled away, intoxicated. "Roll onto your front," he told John, reaching down to his bag beside the bed, fumbling through to find lubricant. John hesitated, but Moran heard him shift, felt the mattress dip and move.

The orange light through the window cast John's skin in shades of gold. Moran appreciatively stroked down the lean expanse of his back, smoothing over the planes of his shoulders, his trim waist, the gentle curve of his rump.

"Beautiful," he murmured, tracing his fingers over the peachy soft skin lain bare to his hungry gaze.

John huffed out a nervous laugh.

"You are," Moran said gently. He uncapped the lubricant and spilled a generous amount over his fingers. John's fingers clenched the sheets, breath hitching as Moran reached forward and rubbed the pad of his finger over John's small hole. He quivered when Moran, very carefully, slipped the tip of his middle finger in. "See?"

He pushed, his finger sinking slowly in, giving John time to get used to the intrusion. John did his best to control himself, hands fisted at the sheets, blond head bowing against the strain, his breathing getting noisier.

"Beautiful," Moran repeated under his breath.

He worked John open for him, circling the bump of his prostate when the hurt was too much, making John stutter and shake. The sight was incredible. Every so often Moran would reach down and give himself a few firm strokes, but it was almost unnecessary, given the visuals in front of him. John's compact, tactile body laid open before him, his tight hole stretched around Moran's fingers, glistening with lubricant. He wanted to sink into that heat.

It was easily to flip John onto his back, and Moran relished his own strength, and the ease at which he could toss John around. He dwarfed John, and that fact made him inexplicably pleased. John squirmed beneath him. He looked ruined already.

"Seb…"

Moran got a good grip on John's arse and lifted, canting the smaller man's hips to the right angle to accept him. John's legs skidded against Moran's waist. He was submitting faster than Moran expected, letting himself be positioned, shaking under the power Moran had over him. The man owed Moran his life, his safety. He'd known from the beginning that eventually, he had to give everything.

Like everything else, it had only been a matter of time.

Moran shifted forward so that John's bottom rested against his lap, took a handful of each arse cheek and squeezed. He was lush and warm, and Moran's cock throbbed painfully in anticipation, desperate to bury in deep, but he had to be slow. He was strong, a lot stronger than John. If he took John without restraint, he could gravely injure him.

He took himself in hand and rubbed the head of his cock over John's well-lubricated hole, threatening to dip in with every stroke. John's eyes clenched shut.

"Look at me," Moran ordered.

John's eyes opened again, a rare source of the blue in the fading orange light.

At that moment, Moran pushed in.

" _Aahh_ \--" John gasped out, legs tightening around Moran. He reached out to press against Moran's chest, but Moran pinned his wrists down with one large hand. John writhed deliciously, his eyes watering, as Moran slowly slid in deeper. "Wait, it's too much…"

It wasn't enough. Moran crackled with restraint, the animal in him just wanting to pin John down and root him like a fuckdoll, but he didn't. He gritted his teeth, and waited.

John shuddered around him, his eyes going distant again. His brow was knotted in pain, and Moran had barely entered him.

"Relax," he said, in an attempt to soothe, releasing John's wrists and crouching over him. John immediately pushed at his chest. "Shh, John, it's okay."

He cradled John close, and John whimpered, legs flexing against Moran's sides. His nervousness tightened him like a vice around Moran's cock.

Moran shuddered at the clenching heat, before he composed himself. "Just relax."

John gulped for breath, his hand still futilely pushing Moran away. His chest was heaving.

"Deep breaths, John," Moran murmured. "With me, okay?"

He breathed slowly, deeply. John stared at him, and followed suit. His body laxed against the mattress, and the hands at Moran's chest stopped pushing, and just rested there.

Moran pushed in, slowly. He could feel himself opening John up. John's head rolled back, throat bobbing as he groaned. When Moran was fully seated in him, he gathered both of John's wrists and pinned them again over his head, stretching his body out. He'd penetrated John completely, and every inch of the man's skin was revealed to him. It was true possession.

"Wrap your legs around me."

John did, mouth widening as his movements shifted Moran deep within him.

"Squeeze."

John hugged Moran with his thighs, and he tightened beautifully around Moran's cock. It was blissful. Moran let out a low groan, and John stared at him, rapt.

It pushed Moran over the edge.

He surged forward, driving deep into John, savouring his tightness, his wet velvet heat squeezing around him. John yelped and wriggled back, but Moran kept him close with a vice-like grip, and slammed in again. John moaned as Moran gripped hold of him and took him, first with slow deep strokes, then forcefully enough to rattle the bed against the wall.

John writhed beneath him, skin glistening at the effort of withstanding Moran's thrusts, crying out, completely overwhelmed. He scrabbled at Moran's large hand holding his wrists down, legs clenching around him just to keep himself from toppling to the side. Moran dragged his hand down John's sweaty chest and gripped forcefully at his hip, tugging John's arse up to meet him with every thrust. He aimed for John's prostate, and was rewarded at when John's eyes locked shut, helpless cries slipping from behind gritted teeth.

Moran managed to wring to sweetest noises out of him. John seemed to be unbearably sensitive, and after only a few minutes of Moran's careful ministrations, he came with a shocked shudder. Trembling and writhing, his face was desperately screwed up as if Moran were torturing him. His muscles contracted and loosened around Moran's cock like his body was trying to _milk_ him, and it took all of Moran's discipline not to come then and there.

He had no idea how much time he had left with John. He wanted to make this last.

He fucked John until the sun went down, until John was so exhausted he could barely hold himself up. Moran was beginning to tire too, pent up frustration and raw determination could only power him for so long. He felt the familiar tug at his groin, and this time let it build. Cradling John close, Moran let go, rocking into him with fast, short thrusts as warm pleasure pooled deep in his belly, turned boiling hot.

Sweat beaded over his body, and each thrust was sweeter. He was so close, painfully close - and then suddenly, he was there. Ecstasy rippled through him, took him, and with a panting groan he tugged John's hips, sliding in to the hilt, and released himself deep in John's body.

The world fuzzed out around him. Utterly spent, he slumped over John's trembling form, smothering him with his body weight, too exhausted to prop himself up. At the corner of his consciousness he felt John relax as Moran stilled, legs sliding from Moran's waist as he melted, boneless, into the mattress. One hand stroked tentatively over Moran's shoulder, gentle, pacifying, like he was trying to soothe a tiger.

Had he been scared?

Moran pressed his lips to the dip between John's collarbones and let his softening cock slip from the warm wet tightness. John let out a little noise at that, although Moran was too fuzzy to decipher it.

John was so small and tender beneath him. Moran felt warmth bloom in his chest, that same unfamiliar feeling of fondness.

He smoothed his hands up and down John's waist, then pulled the sheets over them both to comfort him. It was over. John let himself be moved, curled complacently inwards as Moran dragged him against his chest. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open, which Moran, with his sex-sated brain, found incredibly endearing.

"Go to sleep," he whispered in John's ear.

For the first time, he got to feel John fall asleep in his arms.

 

* * *

 

The net was closing in around them.

They skipped out of town the next day. Moran bought a car with the last of their money, and they drove off into the wilderness. It was a bright, crisp day when he took John out for a hike in the woods. They tramped down paths that were familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, so long it had been since Moran had last been here, until they reached the top of a grassy hill.

The sky was mostly grey around them, with swathes of blue sky and the occasionally flash of sunlight. A calming breeze rustled through the trees and grasses, cooled Moran's skin.

"This is where I learned to shoot," Moran said, eyeing the space around them. "I made a lot of money, John, for being good at killing people."

John just looked at him.

Moran pulled the handgun out from his inside pocket, and handed it to John. It was heavy, fully loaded, but Moran was unafraid. He knew John wouldn't turn it on him. "You know how to use this," Moran stated.

John's eyes went dark. "You've seen me use a gun."

Moran had - that splinter in the dark. John looked better now than the overwhelmed thing he'd been in the safe house, out of practice and out of his depth. Now he was leaner, more rugged. Less of a victim, and more the way he was meant to be. Moran had seen his potential from the start. John dressed down in cardigans, acted polite and reserved - but with eyesight and reactions like that, he was borne to be a killer.

He would never tell John that outright. John suffered from delusions of morality in a world where there was none. He'd spent his whole life buried in the lives of the sinful, but he still believed in humanity's innate goodness. Moran wasn't the person who would change his mind. All he could do was train him, teach him, so he could protect himself.

Or at least, live as long as possible.

With Holmes and the Iceman after them, they were never going to last long. Moran had known that from the beginning.

Moran reached into his bag and pulls out a black case. He swiftly assembled his rifle and set it up so that it looked over the valley. "What about a sniper rifle?"

John looked cautious. "No.

"Come here." Moran gestured John towards the edge of the outlook. "Let me show you."

 


End file.
